Making Choices (Black Shamrocks MC Book 2) (3 page)

As usual, he's standing just that bit too close to me.

“Just one more patient to check, then I’m out of here, Ollie.”

“I’m about to finish as well. How about we grab a drink? Maybe take it back to my place and wind down together?”

I take a step back from him.

Not this old chestnut again.

I’ve been able to avoid him and his persistence for the last couple of weeks. It’s been a blessing to escape him as well as a curse because I’ve forgotten how annoying he can be when he starts.

Tucking an unruly lock of long red hair over my shoulder, I brace my shoulders as I attempt to politely turn down his invitation.

“Thank you, but I’m just going to head straight home and hit the sack. I should’ve clocked out four hours ago, but a gunshot victim was brought in.”

“Ah, that’s right. I remember all the bikers wandering around, acting like they owned the place. Scaring the nurses.” His mouth twists with disapproval as he speaks about the group of men who were at the hospital earlier since the gunshot victim was one of their family.

I scrunch my nose at his unflattering description of the attractive men who were setting all of the nurses aflutter with their presence. The nurses weren't exactly scared of the rugged members of the Black Shamrocks Motorcycle Club. Instead, they were too busy stealing furtive glances and flirting when the opportunity presented itself, to be worried about the aura of menace that surrounded the burly men.

A vision of the huge, handsome, blond biker who stepped in when their President was going to lose his temper with me appears in my head, making my cheeks heat. I push away the memory of stammering like an idiot after he smiled at me. He was off-the-charts hot—they all were. Yet he was the only one who affected my professionalism.

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind about grabbing a drink with me? Surely, you won’t turn into a pumpkin if you’re out after midnight?”

While Ollie’s trying to play his invite off as an innocent drink with his joking tone and nonchalant shrug, it's obvious from the tightening around his eyes and stiff posture that he's hoping I'll finally agree. He's been asking me to go for a drink ever since I started my intern rotation in general surgery at the hospital.

I'm a firm believer that you shouldn't play where you work, and since I hope to win one of the resident emergency surgery roles that will be up for grabs at the end of the year, I'm not keen on engaging in anything inappropriate with one of the senior surgeons. Especially one who’ll be on the interview panel.

Ollie may be good looking, but he’s a renowned sleazebag. He doesn’t even tempt me to break my golden rule.

“Maybe not a pumpkin, but I'm still not interested in getting a drink. I'm beat, and I need to be back here at eight in the morning.”

Ollie steps forward when I turn to push open the door leading to my last patient. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me to him. Locking my knees, I turn my back to the door and stand my ground as well as someone my stature can against a person twice their size. I’m thankful when he stops tugging, but that dies quickly when he doesn't drop my hand. He squeezes it tighter.

“Come on, JJ. I’m only looking for a drink and a couple of fun nights, not marriage. Unless you’re looking, that is.” He laughs at me when I shake my head at him. Trying to tug my hand away fails when his grip becomes painful. “You're young, single, and beautiful. I'm single, interested, and pretty good-looking if I do say so myself. What's the harm?”

“I'm not having a fling with someone I work with. And I’m too busy for anything else. We're friends, Ollie, and I'd like to stay that way.”

“You’re always so tense, JJ. Releasing some of your
tension
with me isn't going to affect your job. If anything—it’d help.”

My hand is aching from his tight grip. I yank it from his, shaking it to regain circulation.

I wish he wouldn't push the point tonight. I'm tired, and I don't want to get him offside if I can avoid it. My career means everything to me.

Squaring my shoulders to tell him as nicely as I can that I'm not interested in
releasing my tension
with him tonight or any night,  I’m diverted from my mission when a big, leather-covered arm is slung over my shoulder. I’m propelled backward, tucked under an armpit and into a hard, male side. Ollie takes a big step away from me, abhorrence covering his face, as he studies the person who interrupted us.

As a petite woman who only stands five two, I'm used to looking up at almost everyone, but this person is huge.

Spicy cologne engulfs my senses, and I immediately know who has his arm around me.

“Is this asshole annoying you, Juliette?” the big, blond biker from earlier tonight questions me in his gravelly voice.

“Of course not. We work together,” Ollie answers before I'm able to.

If I didn't know better I'd assume he was afraid.

Moving me from my position tucked into his side with one big hand, I'm left staring open-mouthed when I meet my rescuer’s suspicious ice-blue eyes.

Running my eyes over him, I take in his long, thick blond hair tied in a messy man bun on his head, tanned skin, and a close-cropped, dirty-blond beard.

Damn, he's a beautiful man.

Dressed in tight black jeans and a leather jacket that proclaims him as the Sergeant-At-Arms of the Black Shamrocks Motorcycle Club, he exudes sexy badass-ness.

“Juliette?” he asks, louder this time.

A thrill courses through me when it dawns that he remembers my name from when we spoke earlier tonight. Physically shaking myself out of my hot-man-induced stupor, I find the ability to answer. “Ollie is one of my bosses. It's fine.”

“Didn't sound fine to me. Sounded like he was telling you that sleeping with him would help your career
after
I heard you turn him down twice?” My would-be rescuer turns his attention to Ollie, who swallows visibly. I can't see his expression from where I'm standing, but if Ollie’s reaction is anything to go by, it's intimidating.

“Oh, I didn't mean it like that. My apologies, JJ, if it came across that way,” Ollie stammers. Turning away from us, he says over his shoulder, “Well, I'm heading home. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Watching his quickly retreating back, I’m left marvelling at the abrupt change in him.

The biker’s sexy voice brings me back to reality.

“He do that often?”

“Sometimes. He tries it on with all the female interns. I haven't succumbed, so he thinks I'm a challenge.”

Jesus. Word vomit, JJ.

I'm not sure why I felt the need to tell him all of that?

Not being the friendliest person, I’m surprised by how comfortable I feel with him.

“Anyhow, thank you for diffusing the situation. I really appreciate it. Mister...?”

I raise my eyebrow. It says Timber on his jacket, but that can’t possibly be his real name.

“I’m Lucas Blake, Doll. But you can call me Timber.” One corner of his mouth quirks when he calls me Doll.

Hmmm, I don’t know if I like that. I know I’m small, but I’m not helpless.

“Well, Lucas, thank you for your help.”

Not waiting for his reaction to my use of his given name, I walk around him and into the room containing the last patient I need to check before I leave for the night.

This patient was brought in with two gunshot wounds and had obviously been tortured. It transpired that he’s the son of the President of Lucas’s Motorcycle Club.

He’s the reason there were a dozen or more bikers prowling the hospital tonight.

I don’t make it far because Lucas grabs my upper arm gently to halt me.

When he hauls me against him, I breathe in his spicy scent, any idea I had of resisting his hold flowing from me. My brain literally short circuits from his close proximity.

“It’s my pleasure. I can’t stand sleazes who abuse their power over women,” he answers, his expression serious, before a sexy grin breaks over his face. “But if you’d
like
to repay me, have coffee with me when you come back in the morning. I’m gonna be here all night.”

Surprise engulfs me. This man is gorgeous—impossibly so. I doubt I’m his type at all.

“Why are you spending the night?” I ignore his offer for coffee.

Trying to block out the effect having his huge, hard body pressed against mine is causing, I pretend I’m composed. It’s mortifying, but I can feel heat coiling in my core as my body responds to his.

“Because it’s my job to look after Joel. To make sure nobody hurts him again.”

“Your job?”

“Yeah. I make sure everyone in my Club’s safe.”

I know next to nothing about motorcycle clubs, except what I see on the news and none of that’s been good. Drugs, prostitutes, and guns are not good lifestyle choices, and as someone who constantly deals with the side effects of them, I’m not a fan of anyone involved.

“Well, in all honesty, Lucas, I don’t see how Joel could be hurt any more than he already has been. He nearly died tonight, and not one of you cooperated with the police when they arrived. You obviously don’t care that he was hurt or about catching whomever did it. It isn’t necessary for anyone to stay the night with him for safety since the damage is already done.”

My indignation grows when I think about the twenty-one-year-old man lying in a critical but stable condition in the room in front of me.

Joel O’Brien will be in an induced coma for a week while his body heals from his horrific trauma.

He was shot twice at close range.

I was able to assist with the repair of those injuries pretty easily once we removed the bullets. He was lucky that his vital organs were not affected. His other injuries weren’t so straightforward. The tops of his fingers were removed from his left hand, and the main muscles and tendons of his right wrist and hand were severed. It’s highly unlikely that he’ll regain full use of his hands.

Joel was also stabbed superficially a number of times.

And then there were the burns all over his body—probably caused by cigarettes.

It upsets me to even think about the horrible ordeal he suffered through.

Lucas defends himself in a heated voice. “Fucking hell, Doll. You go right for the jugular, don’t you? What happened to Joel is fucked up, but wasn’t caused by deficiencies in my security. The damn fool practically handed himself to the fuckers.”

His last statement explodes from him in a loud voice and he thumps his closed fist against the doorframe above my head. My heart jumps at his unexpected violence.

I take a step away from him, coming to a halt when he pulls me back to him by my arm.

Looking me dead in the eyes, he continues answering my accusations. “We don’t cooperate with fucking cops. We look after our own. We follow our own rules, so rest assured that the cunts who hurt Joel will be dealt with appropriately.”

Shrugging my arm from his hold, I ignore his crude words, and head for Joel’s bedside. Checking his chart for the last set of vitals taken by the nurse, I’m confident that he’s stable enough for me to head home.

Pretending Lucas is invisible as I leave the room, I make myself walk around the large man who’s been silently watching me since his outburst. I power walk down the corridor without a backward glance, needing to get away from his silent brooding.

I know I should find his intensity intimidating, but I don’t.

He’s scary, but there’s something I find attractive about his commanding presence.

JJ

Six Months Earlier

J
uggling my car keys, satchel, and the pile of charts my cross-shift dumped in my arms on her way out, I push my way into the junior medical officer’s locker room, yawning widely.

It’s ridiculous, but I couldn’t sleep after my run-in with Lucas last night.

I feel awful for basically blaming him for Joel’s injuries. I did a little bit of research last night, and learnt that being the Sergeant-At-Arms is a vital protection role in a motorcycle club. The position’s usually reserved for the most violent, toughest members.

Men who either enjoy, or are good, at inflicting serious pain on others.

I basically delivered one of the nastiest insults I could’ve to a man who was already hurting because one of his brothers was hurt on his watch. That’s what they call each other—brothers.

The whole idea of outlaws is abominable to me because I believe the rules that dictate society were implemented for a reason, however I have enough compassion within me to feel bad for insulting someone else’s way of life.

Dumping my belongings into my locker and pulling on a clean pair of green scrubs, I run through my list for the day. With another hour before I need to be in an operating theatre, I’ll have time to catch up with yesterday’s patients and grab another coffee and something to eat.

“I hear you witnessed one of the bikers from last night threatening Dr. Carter, JJ?” The quiet voice breaks through my thoughts.

“Huh?” I shoot her a quizzical look. Nobody was threatened in front of me.

“Dr. Carter reported it to management this morning. Said you were there when it happened.”

Glancing around to make sure no one is close enough to hear us, I lean in to question Gwen. She’s the closest thing I have to a best friend at the hospital—in life really. I have lots of acquaintances and some people I would call casual friends, but I find it hard to let people in enough to become good friends. Gwen is exuberant and one of life’s happy-go-lucky forces of nature, so it’s hard to ignore her when she decides she likes you and wants to be your friend.